He pressed the back of his wrist to the boy's forehead. He pulled back, the heat stinging his skin. He rested his arm on his knee and glanced up over to the masked man. The elder rose himself from his squat, wiping dust from his cotton slacks. "This is new, Erik. I thought you were above kidnapping."

Defensively, the man pressed the leather skin of his gloves to his thin, white shirt, scoffing dramatically, "You really thought a monster was above something? Really, Gerard, I thought you were smarter than this." Erik gave the Opera manager a distinctive growl.

With a roll of his eyes, he returned his eyes to the boy. "You know that I think of you no less because of…." He paused, not wanting to state the obvious.

Growling, he spat, "Go ahead, say it! Because of my face!"

"Erik! Enough!" The boy stirred and he lowered his volume, "Tell me, why do you have this young man in the stables?"

"I thought you were smart enough to figure that out." Erik breathed deeply through his nostrils and when he exhaled, all of his anger and defenses turned into smoke. His eyes softened as he looked down upon the pathetic, ordinary human. "He has a fever, he is in a cold sweat, and he coughs like a beggar. I found him passed out in the rain. His breath contained no spirits and his clothes were nothing but rags held together by a string. He's a sick, homeless boy."

A small smile graced Gerard's lips, "And you saved him?"

The man's arrogant air dissipated and his arms fell to his sides. "I couldn't just leave him in the rain. I'm not heartless, Mousier."

"I know Erik, I know. What do you plan to do with him when he is well?"

The masked man rubbed the back of his neck, nervously staring at the wall to avoid looking at the kid. "Just throw him out. I have done my dues and whatever happens to him is no longer in my fault."

There was no note that the manager had to say. He knew Erik was set in his ways and one of his ways was to always be alone. Yet, wasn't it his fault for turning this lonesome creature to act like such an old crone? It saddened him but he was too spineless to say anything else on the matter.

"Well, I'll make sure to have a meal for you to bring down to him every morning and evening. I don't wish to dump his body in a canal."

"Not like anybody would notice." Gerard furrowed his brow and upturned his mustached face at Erik's calloused attitude and walked out of the stall, deciding he didn't have the patience to deal with the Phantom at the moment.

With a fervent sigh, Erik rested his head on a support column. The boy was wasting his composing time. He had a million notes rushing around his head but they would not have a chance to be written down because he was too soft to let a boy die.

People die every day on the streets of Paris. When he ventures outside, he would see many dyeing beggars and even more corpses of them. And, he thought to himself, why hadn't he dropped him off at a doctor's house? There were a number of doctors who could treat this fool better than he ever could. Of course, from the looks of it, the boy is poor and, without money, he would not be treated.

He may have been living in a hole (literally) his whole life, but he learned fast that money ran the world. If you didn't have some form of currency, then you were worthless. The dirt in the ground was worth more to people here than a francs-less person. Money made people soulless and would only help if they received something in return. It was one of the reasons why he despised the outside world so much.

The boy whimpered. Erik glanced down at the bucket of water near his feet. He kept staring at the kid, noticing how he would cramp up. Sweet ran down his scrunched up, agony-induced face. Erik's eyes followed a drop of sweat slide slowly from the tip of his chin and onto the warped, wooden floor.

With a deep and ragged sigh he bent down, lifting the bucket of water by the handle and strode over to the sick young lad. Kneeling next to the kid, Erik picked up the rag that had been soaking in the luke-warm water. He rang the cloth of excess liquid before dabbing the boy's face.

A small cry was released from the boy's pink lips. "Mama?"

Ignoring the fever-driven cry of help, Erik continued patting the sweat from the boy's neck.

"Warum Mama? Ich habe nict zu bedeuten."

"Odd," Erik noted, "He speaks German."

When the skin felt cool, Erik tossed the cloth back into the tin bucket and stood from where he was squatting.

This sickly, rail-thin human gripped the hem of Erik's pants, preventing him to move any further. Although the grip was very light, the man didn't think he had the heart to tug his pant leg away. The mere sight of the poor fellow made the Phantom groan.

The boy's eyes were open just a crack and were horribly glazed over. His hands shook and his breathing was exasperated, giving a pained sigh after each gasping breath.

But Erik refused to stay and sooth the child, or, that's what he thought.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. He couldn't comfort this poor chap because, when the kid did awake, he would be petrified to see a masked fiend looking over him. He told himself that over and over again. That it was pointless to stay with him when he wouldn't even know the Phantom was there.

But, as if on instinct, the man knelt down to the boy, softly humming one of the tunes he had heard when he was but a child.